


Seven

by Shush7



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Armie's POV, M/M, Many First Times, long live the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-04-27 11:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14424072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shush7/pseuds/Shush7
Summary: It has happened seven times. Us giving in to the relentless want coursing through our bodies, accompanied by or perhaps deriving from the unexplainable connection between our minds and, dare I even say, souls, that could only be explained as random luck of the universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, so.. this happened. I keep wanting to write something less angsty and for the love of me that just seems to not be working out. Thus, instead I've decided to erect a smutty/angsty altar at the Armie-Timmy temple of looove. What does that even--? That makes no sense.
> 
> Anyhow, this is a disclaimer that (a) I do not know Armie and Timmy at all, this is a work of (un)pure fiction and any references to their real lives are coincidental, and (b) it may be complete shite as I've never done anything multi-chaptered before and really don't consider myself a Writer with a capital W just yet (not even close).

 

 _Seven_. It has happened seven times. Us giving in to the relentless want coursing through our bodies, accompanied by or perhaps deriving from the unexplainable connection between our minds and, dare I even say, souls, that could only be explained as random luck of the universe.

There is a quiet understanding between us, an agreement formed with loving touches, heated kisses and evident declarations left unsaid. An agreement that allows us, if the want gets too unbearable sometimes, to just take. To ask for permission with even a simple caress or with the briefest graze of our fingers, permission that is always granted, more often than we can even dare to ask and make use of it. It feels constantly present in our body language - an invitation for each other to look, roam hands all over, kiss, lick, bruise, take whatever each of us has only to be given to the other.

It's never planned, it's never a thing we agree on beforehand and specially meet up for - I wish we would have that certainty, to even know that _this time right now_ is not the last one, but it is a luxury we can't afford. Not when I'm married to the love of my life. Not when I still adore her and my family every bit as much as I did before _him_. Not when the guilt is gnawing away at my insides for the things I want, for the things I have taken despite not being allowed to and for everything I know that will happen when I lay my eyes on him yet again.

I have to fight wanting him every minute of every day. Everything I hear or see is a reminder of him and the things we've done together. The things we shouldn't have done together. Whenever new pictures of him posing in front of a wall for the paparazzi appear, I am instantly drawn back to the moments I've had him pushed against a vertical surface, that beautiful mouth of his slightly parted, moaning, overwhelmed.

I can't even decide which location is the best, or actually, worst for me to think back on. Or go to, because apparently the ghost of mine and Timothée's sin is lurking everywhere.

I was heavily reminded of that a week ago when, after 10 too many shots even for a man of my stature, I decided to split a joint with Nick on his hotel room's balcony in New York, realizing too late that the balcony's barrier was composed of metal bars.

I actually gulped down air seconds after I'd stepped into the open, blood rushing South instantly, because the only thing I could see before me was Timothée's beautiful pale body bent forward on a balcony almost identical to this one, voice broken, sobbing softly, his hands and knuckles white from gripping the bars excruciatingly tightly to hold himself up as I ate him out, two thick fingers pushed into his tight body alongside my tongue.

Standing on the balcony with Nick, unlit joint in hand, I could practically feel Timothée's soft curls in my palm instead of it because I had yanked at his hair then too, dark curls crushed into my fist while baring his neck covered with small rosy marks, _property of one Armand Hammer._

He's everywhere, around me, in me, a memory of him the master of my consciousness except for the rare occasions I'm so immersed in something that I simply forget to want. In those moments I feel uncharacteristically blissful, albeit fate is a cruel mistress and rarely allows me this.

I feel my self-control wearing thin, my everyday mask slipping. I am weak when it comes to him. It feels as the further he is, the more it hurts. But also the closer he is, the more it hurts. _Weak._

It's impossible to deny that my life as I know it has been divided in two - life before meeting Timothée and after. For him, my heart grew a special place because how could it not.

It's often said that the most wonderful things happen when you least expect them. And there was no way I could have expected Timothée, no way to know someone like him even existed beyond descriptions in fairytales or wildly inaccurate and naive love stories. 

Someone whose laugh really does make my insides burst with joy, whose sadness tears my soul in two. And who, by just being there beside me, makes my life complete. If fairytales were supposed to be just that, why does he exist then?

Of course there was no way I could see it coming, no way that this seemingly fragile boy, only 20 years of age when we met, would draw out my worst fears and just by existing in the same realm as me, soothe me, comfort me, give me life. He was everything. _He is everything._ There is pureness to him that I never had, belief, gratitude and a complete lack of understanding of just how precious and special he truly is. And how he is simultaneously an old soul and a young one, too smart and empathic for his own good, so raw with emotion, breathing life and love and excitement into every single person he meets.

I swear that when he looks at me, green eyes glimmering, all I see is understanding. As if his glance was telling me _There is nothing you can hide from me and I love everything I see._ Truly, how could I not have let him into my heart. Especially if he showed even the tiniest sign of wanting to be there. I could never deny him anything.

I'm still in awe of how quickly it had happened. The way he had radiated warmth that reached the very depths of my body and settled in my bones made me feel content from the first moment we met. Within a few weeks I just _knew_. He had carved his way into my heart with those long elegant fingers of his, called it home and was slightly tugging at my heartstrings as if playing a harp, just to say "I've arrived. I'm here to stay."

And there to stay he was. Such as he had built a home for himself in my heart, he also felt like home to me, a home where you would be loved unconditionally, always taken care of and never forgotten, even if in reality you were a world away. He would be my home away from home from then on, perhaps even more of a home than mine had ever been.

Just because I can't say that it's love doesn't mean it's not. It just means I can't say it, not out loud.

Maybe this is a fairytale after all and I myself am the antagonist, I am my own evil witch, the bad apple. Or perhaps the circumstances are.

But despite the circumstances not allowing us to happen, it was impossible to have his body so close to mine without needing to touch, to show what I felt for him, how deeply I loved him. That awkward mess of a boy who was perfect to me, everything to me and how no words could ever describe what I wanted him to know.

'But maybe my body could teach his, tell my story with fingers running through his hair and down his slender form,' I had thought to myself already in Crema. Even then I knew he felt it too, knew instantly because whenever I would touch him, black would overtake the green of his eyes, arousal would overtake him.

I had no clue back then, no clue whatsoever 2 years ago in Crema that this, giving in and allowing myself to want and even have, would eventually overtake me, overwrite my past, consume my present, even dictate my future.

Had I done anything differently if I had known? For myself, nothing. For Timothée, everything.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, this is how it all started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything here is pure fiction and any references to real life are either accidental or used as mere inspiration and, thus, subject to my most likely incorrect interpretations of how everything actually transpired.
> 
> In the CMBYN film commentary, Timothée mentions standing on Armie's feet between takes and my heart just can't take it.
> 
> I truly hope you enjoy this chapter.

Looking back, it's impossible to pinpoint when I first realised I felt something for him. Or, more accurately, _something other_ than brotherly camaraderie built on a foundation of bumping fists, occasional pats on the back or ruffling each other's hair.

It was more, way more than that so early on in Crema. It must have happened organically, without me taking any notice of it, yet constantly finding myself looking, _really looking_ at his beautiful features, the way he laughed with his entire body bending forward, hands flying around everywhere when he spoke, always wetting his lips with the tip of his pink tongue.

But I do clearly remember the first time I felt completely overwhelmed by this feeling of _something other_ , because it seemed more than I was allowed. It was with immense apprehension that I recognised I wasn't only learning to love Timothée because of the roles we had to play. I was learning to love _him_.

The day it happened was an uncharacteristically hot one even for Crema, grass scorching and the rays of sun mercilessly licking our skin with their burning tongues. For the moment being we were between takes, me just stretching skywards, bending my neck left and right to relieve tension. All the while Timothée was shifting from one leg to another, practically jumping on his bare feet.

"God, you're so ridiculous." I huffed out a laugh, feeling my heart swell for this precious boy.

He looked at me slightly accusatorily. "The ground's too hot, not all of us are wearing flip-flops you know." His voice sounded grumpy. It was adorable.

"And why are you not wearing flip-flops?"

"I left them at the house."

"… which is right next to here?" I raised an eyebrow, amused, smiling.

"But then I'd have to walk over the grass to get there and it's… can I stand on your feet instead?" He just said it like it was the most normal thing.

“Come here,” my body reacted before my mind had even caught up.

He reached for me instantly, grabbing ahold of my arms to balance himself as he stepped onto my feet. He was light as a feather. " _Ahhhh_ , much better," he smiled dreamily, closing his eyes, and leaned his head against my shoulder, soft hair tickling my skin.

For a moment there, I forgot to breathe.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

I could feel my heart beating not in my chest, but in my throat, my ears, even my mind, every pulsation an assault on my body.

_He was so close. He was so close I could breathe in the faint scent of sandalwood in his curls, feel the heat emanate from his delicate form, all the while too aware of the tiny puffs of air on my neck._

Had he dislodged it then, my heart? Could it take no more than his bare skin in contact with mine? Had to elope before what happened? _Before what?_

A million thoughts were rushing through my head.

_God, the sound that he made. I make him feel good. It is my body that is providing comfort for his body. Would he make a sound like this again if I just pressed him against me? Or lifted him up? He's so light. Would that make him feel good too, if I carried him? What other sounds should I expect, should I prepare myself for, so that I would be ready when I heard them, and my body would not betray the things I’m feeling?_

But most importantly _– didn't he know he was going to kill me with this?_

 _Of course_ we had touched before and would certainly touch again, but that had been for acting, would be for acting. _This_ wasn’t. And I wasn't allowed to feel _this_ , not only because I was married, but because he was a man, a young one at that, and although other people could sometimes feel those things, that sort of attraction, it was me that shouldn’t, that couldn’t. _I was just not allowed_.

If that's how I had been raised, it must not have been a lie. _Right?_ But why then, why did it feel like one at that very moment?

Moments passed and I didn't know what to say, didn't even know what to feel, so I didn't say anything, tried helplessly to feel nothing. Just stood there, his warm, small frame leaning on me. After a few minutes I wrapped my arms around him, palms meeting on his back just below the ribcage. _For holding his balance, nothing more._ And if I accidentally traced the hollows between his bones, or bumped my fingers over the protruding vertebrae, then it was just that, _an accident._

When he shifted his face to look at me, all I could see was the black in his eyes. All I could hear was the quiet. Quiet around me, in me, not a thought racing anywhere anymore. Quiet.

***

This simple, innocent moment has meant so much more to me than our first rehearsal ever did. We were mere acquaintances then, albeit walking a certain path to friendship.

This is likely why the events of the rehearsal are always so easy to describe in interviews, either me or Timmy telling the story of the first time that we kissed, tongue and all, making out like teenagers on the grass in Luca’s garden, grabbing each other’s bodies tentatively, anywhere we dared and could reach.

Feeling his light weight on me, plush lips pressed onto mine, long fingers in my hair had been nice, _a bit too nice_. But I hadn’t really known him then, known Timmy like I do now and like I already did by the time he asked to stand on my feet.

Because make no mistake, before anything else transpired, we were friends. We were always friends first and lovers second. But, in the words of André Aciman, _perhaps this is what lovers are_.

***

Later that night sleep evaded me. I was tossing and turning, tangled in the sheets, trying desperately not to think about Timothée, but failing on a remarkable scale.

I hated feeling as if holding him had somehow been gut-wrenchingly wrong, that I had not been allowed to do so, that I had stepped so far out of line I could never undo it, never be forgiven.

But holding him hadn’t _felt_ wrong, not then, not ever. Not even an inch of our bodies glued together had ever felt wrong. It had been the exact opposite.

His closeness that day haunted me into the early hours of the next. Or, more accurately, I was haunted by the way I had _felt_ about his closeness. That was the real ghost, a poltergeist who left no rock unturned on his quest to my very core, grinding and grinding at my insides, trying to find answers to questions that I didn’t even dare to ask.

I just knew that there was no way holding him like that could be wrong. _And if that was the truth, why wasn't I allowed to?_

Then, I suddenly remembered what had transpired almost a week prior. A small thing, yet again, with inherently big consequences.

Me and Timothée had been watching a movie, lounging on the couch at his place, when he suddenly placed his cheek on my palm, lips faintly grazing my wrist, gentle eyes looking up at me.

“What are you doing?” I asked, feeling confused, delighted, terrified.

“I just feel like cuddling,” he replied, nuzzling further into my palm like a kitten.

 _He just feels like cuddling._ ‘God, how does he exist?’ I had thought then, abruptly needing to swallow down the lump in my throat. In that instant I had felt a pressing urge to meet his parents, feeling immense gratitude and adoration towards them, wanting to thank them for raising a child who was completely and unapologetically himself.

Lying in my bed, remembering all this, I felt the poltergeist slowly ripping out the roots of my upbringing to plant a new seed into the now hollow space.

We’re always told you can’t choose your family, but at that very moment, tangled in both my sheets and desperation, I decided that I could. _And I chose Timothée._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback means the absolute world to me! *subtle hint*
> 
> Seriously, I live for your comments.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two words for y'all: inner & turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really got stuck with the beginning there, so I'm really sorry for not updating sooner.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this and if you do, then please keep in mind that I LIVE FOR YOUR COMMENTS. THEY GIVE ME LIFE. THEY ARE LIKE OXYGEN. Wow, this is not dramatic at all.

I had such limited understanding then. Such limited understanding of what it meant to have him in my life, how big and crucial of a role he could and would play from that night on.

By choosing Timothée, I had inherently given myself permission to feel everything I felt, however far it was from what I was obliged or _allowed_ to. And not only feel, but ask questions I had not yet dared to ask, think thoughts I had pushed aside for as long as I could remember. It had been so long that I barely _could_ remember.

The way he was so exposed and disarmed, _sans_ mask, _sans_ shield, heart and arms wide open, rendered me utterly defenseless _._

I wanted to bare myself as well, I was desperate for him to know me for some unexplainable reason. The real me, whoever that was without the cage built around me, a wall laid brick upon brick by the truths I had been told and the truths I had told myself.

I had lived a good life, a happy one even, but in a way I had been asleep before I met him. It felt more like _a lif_ e, not _the_ life or _my_ life. So much of it seemed like a cliché – _the story of a boy who had wanted to break free, only to become the man everyone expected him to be._

And even if it does feel like a good life, living a cliché _hurts_. It is a special kind of torture, destined not only for the ones who are too fearful to walk an original path, but also for those who wish to be good for everyone else.

Those who wish to make others around them satisfied and are willing to sacrifice their own fulfilment, even whore out their happiness if necessary for that very goal. Those who wish to cause no heartbreak, no disappointing glances, who are eager to please because they simply care too much about others and too little about themselves. Those like me, apparently.

It was easy, so easy for me to exist in a life where seemingly nothing was wrong, where all of the decisions I made were _the right ones_ because they were _the norm_ , what the society approved, what my family and even friends approved, because they were approved by that same family, they were approved by the version of myself that was approved by my family. Because I wanted to be _good_.

I was content with my life. I also resented it deeply.

So when I woke up too early the morning following my silent declaration to Timothée, it was equal amounts excitement and fear that had lifted me from my restless slumber.

I realised I didn't know who I really was because I had never let myself _be me_ , no one had ever let me _be me_. _But I needed to know me._ Even more so, I needed _him_ to know me.

And in that moment I felt so unspeakably small. A scared creature who had broken out of its cage on the quest to freedom, crouching in front of the opening, _trembling_ , afraid of both the dark it had known most of its life and the sunlight because of what it could reveal.

Maybe the mask was there for a reason, a monster hiding underneath, the mask its only refuge, or perhaps I was empty instead, the hidden me a worthless Nothing.

I pressed a pillow against my face then, a wake-up call because _I was drowning in my own head_. My thoughts like a tidal wave drawing me further and further from the shore.

Was this what Luca had meant? _"There's so much more to you than one can see on the surface."_

"Inner turmoil," I whispered softly against the pillow.

_"You need to let go," Luca had said, two years ago, a year ago, half a year ago, yesterday._

Sighing deeply, I pushed off the pillow and shifted myself from my bed, determined to step into the sunlight.

And where else could I have gone then if not directly to the sun itself.

***

Timothée answered the door on the umpteenth knock.

He looked half-asleep, standing there in the doorway, long stork legs sticking out from under the particularly oversized navy jumper he most likely threw on in a haste. He was rubbing sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand, squinting, face slightly scrunched up from the light radiating into his apartment from where I stood.

His short curls were a complete mess, body undoubtedly still warm from being wrapped in blankets during the night, _pliant, adorable._ The sight of him made my heart ache in the weirdest way.

_Sleepy, soft, morning Timmy._

"Armie?" he asked, still rubbing his eyes, "It's really early." He made it sound more like a question.

"Sorry, it is, very," I didn't really know how to excuse myself being there besides really wanting to. I had never gone to his apartment in the morning. It was barely sunrise anyhow.

"I have breakfast," I said in a moment, smiling apologetically, and lifted up a bag filled with fresh pastries. Thank god for Italian bakeries that opened way too early.

"Well, in that case, _mi casa es su casa_ ," he smiled back sincerely, flashing teeth, the emotion crawling up to his still sleepy eyes. He opened the door wider and moved to the side so I could come in. Everything about him was always so accommodating.

"Would you like coffee?"

I watched him walk towards the kitchen, noticing that the sweater he was wearing barely reached his creamy thighs and how a part of me wanted him to have nothing at all underneath it.

I shook my head as if that would shake away the thought as well.

"Uh, yeah, sure," I cringed at myself. "Thanks," I added as an afterthought.

 _Maybe coming here was a mistake_. _He's 20. What did I expect? For him to fix me?_

"Are you alright, Armie?" I was so lost in my head again that I hadn't even heard him return to the living room.

He was looking up at me, eyes worried, eyebrows slightly raised. He lifted his hand to my bicep, just taking ahold of it softly, always _so soft_ in his demeanor.

I didn't know how to respond. I didn't want to lie, not to him, so I just held his glance in silence. I watched him blink, one, two, five times, green disappearing for a quarter second, then re-emerging.

"Maybe a bit of sleep would do you good? It's barely daybreak and we have time before filming." He was still holding my bicep, so careful with both his hands and words. I just nodded.

"Come on, then," he smiled at me more with his eyes than anything else, and walked over to his bed immediately, leading me along as if I had been attached by a string.

He let go of my arm when we reached his bed. He just lied down on it, curling himself into the pillows and blankets on the left side, patting his hand down on the right as if giving further permission. He seemed to be holding his distance for my sake.

The whole situation seemed so bizarre. What did this even mean? What was I doing? _Why was I there?_

Before I could hesitate, I sat down, toed off my shoes and, trying desperately to not look at his slender form splayed all over the bed, lied down on my back next to him. My heart was pounding in my chest, I was sure he could hear it too.

"You know it's alright, Armie," he said, "you can fall asleep."

"I'll be here while you sleep. And when you wake up," he added in a minute and raised his hand to my hair, threading his fingers through the strands, petting it slightly.

I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to calm my still rapidly beating heart. 'There is no way I can fall asleep like this,' was my last thought before drifting into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking in his bed, slowly stirring from the much needed sleep was my second start to that day.
> 
> It felt like the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter!
> 
> I'm sorry that I'm such a slow writer, guys! And I know the style is quite inconsistent at times, so please forgive me for that as well :). It's my first (multi-chaptered) baby and it has growing pains.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this and if you do, then PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know because your comments are everything!

I shouldn't have gone there that godforsaken morning. Part of me knew it then, part of me knows it now, yet part of me refused to believe it was a mistake then and still does to this day.

In a way, my silent declaration to Timothée the night prior marked the commencement of my separation. It was the events of that very morning at his apartment in Crema, however, that sealed my fate and lead me on a path of parallel existence from then on.

***

Waking in his bed, slowly stirring from the much needed sleep was my second start to that day.

_It felt like the right one._

The moment was quiet, tranquil, there was no sudden movement around me, _no movement in me_. The only sounds carried through the warm air were faint chirps from the outside, the rustle of trees, _Timothée’s breathing_.

Sunlight was peeking through the curtains, the rays of light mischievously dancing on his features. He was so incredibly beautiful then, so innocent and peaceful in the sanctuary of his dreams.

His silent exhales and inhales were accentuated by the tiny, barely visible rise and fall of his chest. He was lying on his side facing me, cuddled into the blanket tightly, the oversized navy sweater having fallen off his shoulder, revealing just enough of the milky white skin to constitute a distraction.

I wanted to pull at his sweater so it would give me more to admire, lust after but not yet take. _I shouldn’t._

I forced my eyes away from his bare shoulder, tracing the small freckles on his neck to his face. It was as if the long lashes curling against his cheek were inviting me to cherish his sharp cheekbones, the contrast between pale skin, dark hair and pink lips. Brown locks curled against the pillow, framing his still boyish but indescribably alluring face.

***

His hair was so much shorter then. So much shorter than the times I’ve yanked at it roughly, bending both his body and soul to my will, letting them hang in the balance as I contemplated how he could better fulfill my selfish demands.

Thinking back to how we were in Crema those first few weeks, how I slowly grew to love every inch of him makes me heart ache. I was in such deep denial then, thinking I could take something from him and offer something in return. But loving him would make me greedy, would make me want to take everything, _let him be my everything_ when I could give him nothing.

Yet in that moment in bed, having woken up next to him, admiring his gentle features, the only thing that had made my heart ache was that _he didn’t know._

He had absolutely no idea how breathtaking he was. And the revelation still tightened my throat uncomfortably then because I had never found men attractive before, not in the way I did Timothée, because _I didn't care that he was a man_.

It was of absolutely no importance to me and that should’ve been a certain sign that I was utterly and completely fucked.

I only cared that it was _him_ , a beautiful soul in a beautiful body.

I wish for his sake that I could travel back in time and beg my former self to step away, leave the bed before Timothée woke up. I would ask myself to please go, because _you will crush this gentle being, you will break everything you love about him just so that you can fleetingly call him yours_.

But the Armie in Crema _didn’t know_. He had no clue whatsoever.

The only thing he did know was that, watching a peacefully sleeping Timothée _, he felt safe_. He thought that lying next to Timothée, letting his eyes rest on his serene form couldn’t even compare to the way he had startled into consciousness only hours before, unease and trepidation clinging to his skin like sweat, doubt and disarray his only companions.

The way being with Timothée made him feel – he wanted to _always_ feel that way. To live a life so exquisite that waking up merely felt like shifting from one dream to another.

The Armie in Crema had thought that _yes, this is the dream._

And when Timothée finally woke, snuggling the blanket closer, blinking his eyes slowly and taking in the sight of me, his face twisted into a smile.

It was one of those special smiles of his, his whole face making room for the joy that spread all over him in a second, only stopping when his features could no longer stretch to meet the demands of what his heart wanted to express.

„Hi.“

***

I can’t recall in detail everything that we talked about in bed that morning, but I can recall the feeling.

The feeling of trust, acceptance, even understanding. I felt ridiculously comfortable around him as if I had known him my entire life, _as if he had been with me throughout my childhood_ because I had told him everything.

I had even managed to incorporate him into my memories from way before I actually knew him because I wanted him there, _I needed him there_ when I broke my foot on the playground at age 6 or jumped 23 feet into cold water at age 14, him holding my hand.

I told him how I loved my parents, but had always felt confined, sheltered from wanting their approval. How I had quit school when I was so very young to pursue acting, trying to break free, but still somehow ending up the poster child my parents always expected. How I loved Elizabeth and my children with all of my heart, but sometimes felt like there was a part of my heart, part of me I did not know at all.

I remember finally shying away from further stories, laughing self-consciously, even feeling my cheeks redden because _’I’ve just been yapping about myself for ages’_ and asking him to tell me something more about him instead.

There was no way in heaven or hell that I could’ve been prepared for what he told me.

It was nothing, really. It should’ve been nothing. It shouldn’t have moved me in any way, certainly not in the way it did. But that simple confession ignited a spark in me that would burst into a flame and, in time, threaten to burn down everything in both my life and his.

***

Timothée was looking up at me, head resting on his arm that was placed on top of the pillow. He was lying on his side, facing me, our knees almost touching. I think we had moved closer and closer to each other with the passing of each minute.

He was thinking of my request to tell me something about him for a change.

„Make it intimate, because I’ve really just.. We need some sort of balance after my myriad of embarrassing stories,“ I chuckled.

„I love your stories, Armie,“ he smiled, tracing the lining of the pillow with his fingers.

His words warmed my heart. They always did.

I was focused on his features, how they shifted while he was thinking, each thought playing out on his beautifully expressive face. It made the corners of my mouth rise surprisingly close to my ears.

"I'm really sensitive," he finally muttered into the pillow, having turned his eyes away, "to everything."

The mood shifted instantly. It felt as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room and we were in a vacuum instead.

If I didn't know better, I could have sworn he was blushing. He didn't really blush that often.

 _Fuck._ I would have.

"Everything?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"If it's warm, I'm warm. If it's cold, I'm cold instantly," he lifted his eyes from the pillow, looking at me from under his long lashes. "Touches as well," he added, almost casually, when _nothing_ about that information was casual to me.

"Meaning?" I was reduced to monosyllabism, forcing my breathing to keep calm, to not escalate.

"Meaning I feel a great deal very easily. I tend to get overwhelmed sometimes.“ I could see him biting at his lips.

_Oh god._

_Sensitive. Great deal. Very easily. Overwhelmed._

_How was I–? What the–?_

As if that wasn’t enough to kill me right then and there, he added, „It’s mostly a thing with, with, you know, _intimate touches_.“

_No. No, Timothée, I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Were you overwhelmed when we made out in Luca’s backyard? Were you overwhelmed when you stood on my feet? I was overwhelmed then._

_I didn’t know._

And I also don't know what possessed me then, _but before I could think, I felt my hand rise, slowly reach for him._

It felt as if it was acting of its own accord, not listening, not even asking for my thoughts on the matter, fingertips simply landing on Timothée's bare shoulder, starting to trace his body ever so slowly, grazing his arm through the sweater, hand, fingers, even his side along the way, finally settling at their final destination on his hip, gently thumbing the hipbone.

I don't think I took even a single breath during that journey.

Did it last a minute? Second? Hour? I had absolutely no idea. I was just looking at the hand, _my hand_ the entire time, trying to understand how my body could act without me telling it to, but being inherently glad it did.

My hand was still there, still caressing his hipbone, me still not breathing. I could feel Timothée's eyes directed at me, but couldn't force myself to look.

I felt my hand shiver. Or maybe it was his body instead.

Suddenly my head cleared. What the _fuck_ was the matter with me? I didn't even-- _I hadn't even asked._ I had touched him, _intimately touched him_ without permission.

I snapped my hand away instantly. "Sorry, oh my god, Tim, I don't--," I started, still not looking at his face, I couldn't bare to, _I needed to get away_ before I made everything worse.

I tried to turn my body, lift myself up from the bed, but his long pale fingers abruptly caught my wrist.

 _"Armie."_ It was broken, _he sounded broken_ , voice breathless.

I finally shifted my gaze to meet his. Timothée's eyes were wide like saucers, almost all black, pupils completely blown.

I glanced at his soft pink mouth, slightly parted and I couldn't, _I just couldn't look away_ , _couldn't move myself,_ _couldn’t even think_.

After the longest second ever known to humankind, he then tugged at my hand that he was holding and guided it back to his hip. But first, first he nudged his sweater out of the way before placing my palm directly on his bare flesh, pressing his hand on top of mine.

This time I was sure it was him that shivered.

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I remember everything from the second I touched him to the moment we finally parted that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this has been a long time coming.. I’m so so sorry for not having updated sooner! Life just kind of got in the way of writing, but I’ll try my best to post a new chapter at least once a week! Sorry for the extra slow pace of this chapter, I promise there will be more progress in future chapters, including many time jumps.
> 
> I also really want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kudos and comments! Your feedback is always much appreciated and I’m so thankful for all the love I’ve received! It honestly means the world to me.
> 
> Aand one more thing. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this in the notes section before, but English is not my native language and I don’t have a beta reader. So.. if you see any mistakes (punctuation, grammar, me using a strange word/synonym somewhere, ESPECIALLY concerning body parts, lol), please let me know so I can fix it! :)
> 
> That’s all, folks! Enjoy the chapter!

I remember everything from the second I touched him to the moment we finally parted that morning.

I remember every feeling, breath, whispered word because during the days that followed I would replay it in my mind over and over again, not being able to stop, a part of me not even wanting to stop, until it was finally imprinted in my mind with such clarity that even now, years later, I can almost sense his soft flesh under my palm, feel it tremble in unison with his small, soft breaths.

Timothée had been supporting himself on his elbow, having inched even closer than before, torso hunched up slightly and turned to face mine. All I could think then was _feverish._ _His skin felt feverish_ , my palm pressed flat against his bare hip.

I couldn’t even look him in the eyes, I was too terrified of what I would find there.

Terrified that I would see only trust, acceptance, want, perhaps even something more that was certainly not allowed. Terrified that it would break through my final frontier, snap my self-control completely. I would surely give in then, surely take what I wanted.

And I desperately, _desperately_ wanted him.

The air felt so thick it could have been cut with a knife.

It had never been like that with him, _with us_ as we were always comfortable, laughing, touching. Before, physical contact between us had felt natural, innocent even. _It certainly had not felt anything close to this._

This, _this_ was completely uncharted territory. It had nothing to do with acting, nothing to do with playful fighting or brotherly bonding. And innocence? It had almost as much to do with innocence as it had with sin.

The want was unbearable, having halted my movements, keeping me completely still, even my breath seemed to have ceased. But neither of us dared to move, the moment just stretching.

Dali, _The Persistence of Memory_. That’s what it felt like.

Time was liquid, seconds slowly melting in the burning heat emanating from our bodies. The passing of it had never seemed more relative.

My eyes were intently focused on the place we were connected – my tan hand looking indecent pressed between the pale skinny hip and his equally pale hand, long fingers entwined with mine so tightly as if strung together by invisible thread.

His navy sweater was curled up so beautifully, baring his abdomen and flat stomach, leaving little room for imagination what lay under his black Calvin Klein trunks. The material looked silky, the colour in sinful contrast with his milky white skin.

I could actually feel my mouth water at the thought of kissing him there, feeling the contours of his cock through the fabric with my tongue or sucking small rosy marks on his beautiful unblemished skin at the waistband, _to mark him, ruin him just a little_. Map his young body with my tongue, discover trails no one yet had, draw out needy sounds from his lips, especially if he tried to hold them back.

I could feel him taking quick shallow breaths, whole body faintly shuddering under my palm, the arousal a soft electrical current running through his system.

There was no doubt in my mind that he was hard, just from this. Just from my hand on his naked hip, covering too much of it because he was just so delicate, lithe, _so fucking incredibly beautiful_.

_So incredibly sensitive._

_Just a touch and he was almost falling apart._

_Had no one ever–?_

_Had no one ever touched him like this?_

_With singular focus, like there was nothing in the world besides him. Like there was nothing more precious, more pure. More Timmy._

I finally lifted my gaze to his face, greedily taking in the sight of his sinfully soft lips, slightly parted, dark pink from the arousal, from him constantly biting, licking, sucking them into his delicious mouth.

_Oral fixation._

_The things he could do with that mouth._

_Would do if I let him._

_Commanded him to._

Heat pooled in my abdomen instantly at the thought, radiating all over my body, travelling at light speed through every fibre of my being, the spark reaching even the tips of my fingers. It was so sudden, the reaction so unexpectedly overwhelming, it made me release a small sound even before I could register it.

Even ten years his senior, I was no better at keeping myself in check, keeping my arousal and the concurring bodily reactions at bay than him. He had come undone from the touch of my hand on his bare flesh whereas he hadn’t touched me at all yet. Although his skin against my palm, under my fingers was so soft, so precious it felt more like he was caressing my hand with it and not the other way around.

He drew in a noisy breath as a response to my utterly embarrasing whimper and I couldn’t ignore it anymore, couldn’t ignore his eyes boring holes into me, carefully measuring my each and every emotion, every thought that crossed my mind.

I almost tore my glance from his mouth, looking up instantly and could only see a hint of green in his eyes that were completely overtaken by black, pleading, begging me to give him a sign if this was okay, because I know he cared, cared that I was not his alone, _not his yet at all._

He was so completely and unbearably open in his demeanor that it rendered me defenseless.

_God, I’m so in love with you._

_How can I possibly be so in love with you?_

_I don’t even know you, it’s only been weeks. It feels like I’ve always known you. Like I always will know you._

With this – me touching him, him guiding my hand to his body, him looking at me with such intensity, such openness – he had unreservedly bared his body and soul, allowing me everything, even asking for my guidance as if I would know what to do, how to proceed.

He would leave it all up to me, not daring or telling me to take the leap, not taking it himself, knowing full well we had no license to kiss, to touch like this, let alone go further, whatever that would entail.

He had placed his complete trust in me. _I’m not sure I deserved it._

But the moment had been going on for too long, time stretched to its absolute limit, stretched so thin it would snap. Something had to give.

„Is this okay?“ I asked, my voice almost a whisper, and dug the pad of my thumb into the hollow of his hipbone, pressing hard into the soft flesh.

With him, even the quietest whispered words, briefest moments together and smallest touches seemed like something much bigger, more important, everything.

His eyes fluttered closed immediately, body arching toward me, bending his head back so that it revealed the creamy expanse of his neck.

He looked like the epitome of innocence. He looked like the epitome of sin.

I wanted to simultaneously cradle him in my arms and fuck him senseless.

_God, how can he be like this?_

My hand let go of his hip and slipped under the sweater across his back, my arm fitting easily around his slim waist as I pulled him flush against me, pressing my open mouth to his throat, softly sucking on the skin.

I felt his moan tear through the trachea before finally escaping from his parted lips. „Armie,“ his voice sounded so hoarse, „Yes, yes, yes,“ each of the consents a separate breath.

He looked debauched. From nothing, basically nothing. It was like he could just completely dedicate his singlehanded focus on anything – acting, touches, _apparetly intimate ones especially,_ and just dive in, feeling everything, becoming either Elio or a sensual creature of lust, his body merely a mutable vessel for his mind and soul to control.

I smiled at his enthusiasm then, pressing my nose into the soft spot behind his ear before lifting my lips to nibble at his earlobe.

He whimpered, drawing his hands onto my lower back, slowly moving them upwards, wedging his fingers between my shoulderblades and lifting his long unclothed leg over me. His body seemed to melt together with mine, so pliant and delicate in my arms. He was gently, slowly rubbing his pelvis against mine, making small, broken noises. Taking his pleasure, almost apologetic about it.

_And fuck, how I have always loved watching him take his pleasure._

I had no clue then that months later, back in the States I would have him ride me in his hotel bed, hands tied behind his back with black rope, me commanding him to not touch himself, „You have to come from this alone, T, you’re not stopping until you do. I know you can come from this alone. _I know how sensitive you are._ “

I had wanted to take hold of his hips then, press my fingers into the protruding bones and slam him down, but I wouldn’t move an inch of my body, just lied there under him, didn’t move myself even when Timothée was wrecked from frustration, panting, sweaty curls plastered across his forehead, lips stained red from his arousal, continuously lifting his slim form up with his trembling thighs just to impale himself on my thick member once more.

But the Timothée and Armie in Crema that morning were still far from possessive, desperate fucking. They were only desperate in their want, desperate in their hesitation.

I was slowly kissing the pale expanse of his neck, tracing my tongue from freckle to freckle up to his chin, basking in the soft noises he was making. Bringing my hand up to his face, I caressed his sharp cheekbone and lifted my lips so they would faintly rub against his in a promise for a kiss.

My heart was thumping in my chest almost painfully. _Perhaps it was my conscious instead._

_I shouldn’t be here._

_I’m married._

_I love my wife._

The mixture of arousal and guilt was swirling in my stomach, making my insides shiver.

I had made vows to her. I loved her. _But I was so in love with him._

I wanted to do the right thing. But even more so, I wanted to do the thing that felt right in that instance.

 _I had no right._ _No right to want everything._

I closed my eyes, letting my hand travel to his dark curls, tangling my fingers in the soft strands, feeling the tiny puffs of air escaping through his lips and tickling mine.

He must have understood then, understood that I was so confused, so lost in how to proceed, because he stilled his body completely, staying pressed against me, before starting to trace the tips of his fingers down my back, drawing straight lines, circles, an infinity symbol.

I felt my heart calm down, my breathing even out. His presence, his body heat, even the faint scent of sandalwood in his hair felt tranquilizing.

He always knew how to soothe me, to guide me out of my head and into the moment which seemed more like a dream and less like reality when he was there.

Maybe he didn’t want this, _us_ to be a rushed decision, to become a dirty secret that would fill our hearts with shame instead of joy and love. But there was no urgency anymore, just two people slowly accepting their fate in its beauty, in its sadness. Because although the secret wouldn’t have to be a dirty one, it would still always have to be a secret.

 „Can I kiss you?“ I asked after a minute of silence, not knowing whether I was requesting his permission or Elizabeth’s.

 „Yes.“

I couldn’t hear him, could only feel his breath, feel his lips move against mine when he said it because there was a track of ’ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m selfish’_ playing on and on in my mind so loudly that it drowned out all other noises. It was to the sound of those same lyrics on repeat that I finally swallowed down the lump of guilt that would have otherwise choked me.

„Please,“ he said softly, voice trembling a little, having never sounded less like Timothée and more like Timmy than in that split second. It was when it hit me that he didn’t know I could never refuse him anything, he didn’t know that he was perfect to me. I realized that he too was scared of rejection because he had opened himself up to me completely, bared his body and soul and heart, most likely in a way he never had before because he was still so impossibly young.

And in that moment I thought that perhaps ignorance truly is bliss, that perhaps the answer can really be denial – a road well travelled by many. So I decided to detach myself from the Armie Hammer that resided in LA and all of that came with him, just until the summer reached its course and I returned to the States again.

’Armie of Crema would cease to exist when the first autumn leaves touch the ground,’ I had thought foolishly, because, ’ _Surely, surely he would die when lifted out of his cradle, his sanctuary in Crema.’_

So when Timothée traced his shaky fingers over my back, cuddling his body into mine even further, and parted his lips to repeat, „Plea–,“ the sound was cut off by my lips connecting with his, the shape of them perfectly moulding together with mine.

He moaned brokenly and dug his fingernails into my back when I traced my tongue over his lower lip, demanding entrance so I could really _taste him_ , engrave this moment into my memory forever with all of my senses.

And overtake all of my senses he did. Although his light weight in my arms didn’t erase the doubts and the guilt, it surely quieted them, turning down the volume so they felt more like a soft hum to my ears coming from somewhere in the background. The hum was always there, but at least not loud enough to pull my focus when I was with him.

At least not until fall came.

And fall would always come.

What I had failed to grasp then was that my sanctuary was not Crema, it was _Timothée._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing him that morning was the first time in over 8 years that I had kissed someone other than my wife. The first time in over 8 years that I had kissed another person for the sake of kissing that person, the person behind the character as it had nothing to do with Elio and everything to do with Timothée.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides face in shame* I am honestly The Slowest Writer and my apologies that you have to suffer because of it, lol. I honestly think so much about this fic but constantly struggle with writing it + I was away from my computer for like.. 10 days, so there we go.. BUT I do plan on finishing this work before 2025, so I hope you’ll bear with me! I already have some snippets written for when they return to the States aaand I have the final chapter. Let’s see whether I’ll stick with it or not :).
> 
> Again THANK YOU for the lovely comments, they just honestly make writing this completely worth it!
> 
> And I KNOW THIS IS STILL THAT VERY SAME MORNING but I promise we will move along soon. There’s just so much to work through imho.

Kissing him that morning was the first time in over 8 years that I had kissed someone other than my wife. The first time in over 8 years that I had kissed another person for the sake of kissing that person, _the person behind the character_ as it had nothing to do with Elio and everything to do with Timothée.

And for that reason alone there really was nowhere to hide, no excuses to use as a shield and take cover under, no rotten half-truths to weaponise, to serve with beautiful plating. What we did, in its essence, was and would always remain _cheating_ – cheating on the life I lead in the States, the people I loved in the States, even the man that I was in the States.

Yet feelings are pesky little things, and on occasion even big things that can block one’s understanding of right and wrong or at least heavily blur the lines. And the lines were blurred alright, me having granted us permission to do things, to feel things I had no authority to grant. But experiencing Timothée laughing with me, smiling at me, being pouty, being beautiful and smart and talented and the purest soul in this fucking universe, I was simply too caught up in _feelings_ to fully realise how steep the price of my chosen path – denial – would be.

And the price would be steep, I would learn later, because denying a part of your life, your existence, yourself will not make the object of your denial go away. It will constantly be there, typically acting as background noise, then abruptly resurfacing, bringing along agonising guilt and revulsion, refusing to be tamed, refusing to be muzzled.

And the price would be steeper still if you’re denying a part of yourself that loves someone other.

 _’So why do it?’_ I would ask myself far too frequently from then on.

_Because I couldn’t not do it._

I couldn’t not do it, couldn’t not let him kiss me, couldn’t not kiss him.

Not when he was softly, hesitantly licking into my mouth like a kitten that morning. Not when it made my heart ache, realising that his gentle kisses were a complete opposite to the fingernails roughly pressed into my back as there was no doubt in my mind that he wanted it, his arousal unmistakable. But he was holding back, grounding himself, grounding _us_ , because my hesitation had made him careful. Of course he would do nothing besides what I explicitly agreed to – he had decency that I didn't, at least not in that moment.

He loosened the hold on my back then, dragging his fingers softly up to my neck and pulling away.

„Are you sure, Armie?“ A request for confirmation, his emerald eyes swimming in a sea of worry, sea of uncertainty.

’Sure about what?’ I had wanted to ask.

_Sure that I want you? Yes._

_Sure that we should be doing this? No, god, no._

_Sure that I will hate myself after? A million times yes. I already hate myself for it now. But even if I hate myself for it, I will love you for it. That’s how much I want you. That’s how much you mean to me._

But above all else, I was sure that I would never want him to bear the guilt of it, carry the weight of our indiscretion as he was not the one at fault. It was me that should have known better, it was me that wore a ring, me that was the father of two children. It was not him.

The only fault of his was mistakenly thinking that I was somehow as equally special as he was, that out of the two of us me and not him was the most precious, lovable, beautiful soul. He didn’t know it was all him, that all of which was beautiful in me was merely a reflection of everything he radiated.

So for that reason and that reason alone I did something that can, in a way, perhaps be considered as bad as what we were already doing – I cheated on his heart, the only person’s who had actually lured the scared, masked creature that resided in me out of hiding and for some completely unfathomable reason decided to care for that very creature. I cheated on his heart by telling him a blatant lie.

„Yes, completely,“ I stated, looking directly at him, „Everything that happens here, it’s okay.“

He nodded, slowly, then faster, a smile spreading over his features.

It’s when I realised that this, _this_ is a joyous occasion, an occasion that should add up to a smile and I had forgotten that there was more than sadness and heartbreak to this. That the very reason I was here was the love, the lust I felt for him and it was all beautiful. Yet I had made this sad, had made this ugly.

But before I could voice my apologies, before I could muster a smile to say _’You make me feel like no one has ever made me feel and it makes me so happy,’_ he kissed me.

 _And_ _god, he really kissed me_.

It’s as if a dam had burst, desire having at first seeped through, then finally annihilated the small opening I had carved by allowing this to happen in the first place. He completely let go, was unreservedly Timothée and Timmy and everything in between.

And fuck, my lips connecting with his, with the man, _the boy_ behind the role made me question how Elio and him could possibly materialise in the same physical body because _kissing Timothée was nothing like kissing Elio_.

Timothée wasn’t just doe eyes open in awe, unmapped desire and plush open mouth expectantly pressed against Oliver’s.

No, Timothée kissed like he did everything else _– he became it, became the kiss,_ throwing himself completely into it with undivided attention.

He kissed not only with his lips against mine, tongue nimbly licking into my mouth, but kissed my body with his, moving it in time with his mouth, pushing me onto my back with his light weight to climb on top of me without detaching his lips from mine for even a second.

I had never encountered, could barely even recognise such overwhelming desire and dedication to the same desire that inhabited his dainty body.

Arousal shot through my body like shrapnel, tearing through my skin and flesh. It hurt, _kissing him hurt_ because it pulled at the dislocation, the too-recent fracture in my very core, forcing it to finally split open indefinitely.

The pain that it caused was the sweetest of pains, because, _’Of course you would kiss like this, of course you would kiss like this, of course you would take all of me and give me all of you. Of course kissing you would be a swapping of souls, of not being able to tell where I end and you begin.’_

But the pain, the pain was also the foulest of pains, because I could feel Armie the Husband, Armie the Father, even Armie the Son clawing at my insides, could hear their desperate, although muffled screams from somewhere in the background.

But I couldn’t think about that, not then, _not anymore_ as the damage was already done. We hadn’t crossed The Line, but we had crossed a line, _many a line_ really, all of them blurred, and going back would be equally painful as going further, if not worse.

So instead of allowing myself to think, I shut off the voices in my head completely by grabbing the backs of Timothée’s long thighs seated on either side of my hips to lift his body even closer to me to grant myself better access for all that I wanted to do with him.

He whimpered at the additional contact, at how easily I could handle his thin frame, and pushed a hand into my hair, wrapping the strands between his fingers and yanking gently. 

„Timmy,“ I breathed into his mouth, mesmerised by everything about him, especially how I had absolutely no clue that he would be like _this_ in bed, giving his body completely over to me, becoming whatever he wanted and I needed.

I dragged my hands up his sides, the sweater being lifted to his armpits in the process and he was so fucking thin I could’ve traced each bone in his body, let my fingers travel each hill and valley so I’d know all of him, so he’d have no secrets from me.

The want to know him, have him, mark him felt carnal – the built up emotions mixing together with the arousal, making it raw, untamed, _destructive_.

Even in that soft morning light I wanted to wreck him, to do things that only the dark could excuse – press my fingers too deep into the hollows of his ribs when I knew he was too _sensitive_ for it to not hurt, to have the rough stubble on my face scratch his milky skin until it looked red and raw, to take him apart piece by piece until only I knew how to put him back together.

I imagined pulling his hair while roughly fucking him _into_ the bed so the mattress would always bear the shape of him, to never recover from the way I annihilated Timothée’s body, to even soak in the sweat and tears that we poured, the sounds that echoed, bounced off the cream-coloured walls.

Yet there was a different desire deriving not from the arousal in my body, but from the arousal in my heart. The desire was equal in its strength if not even stronger, the desire to care for him, to have his hands guide mine so that they would find pleasure that had nothing to do with desperation and everything to do with beautiful, tender lust, more giving and less taking.

I knew he would lead the way, his hands would know the way because he could always find beauty in a world of sadness, open doors and windows to peoples’ souls that they had shut forever ago, push through even the thickest of walls by searching for an opening so tiny only a ray of light could crawl through and then shine like that ray of light in the darkest of rooms.

I was willing to give myself over so he’d guide me, teach me how to not hurt him when a part of me desperately needed to.

_Be careful with him. Please be careful with him. Please don’t hurt him._

But he made it impossible, fucking impossible to be careful with because he was kissing me hungrily, messily, a combination of lips and teeth and tongue, wantonly panting into my mouth, his own so fucking soft and pliant, moulding into mine perfectly.

The combination of the tiny, desperate noises he was making, grabby hands pushing under my white short-sleeved v-neck, digits stroking every inch of skin they could reach from hipbone to collarbone and his swollen cock rubbing against my pelvis made me want to yank him by his luscious curls, to pin him down and _punish him_ for being so fucking shameless when he looked like the sweetest angel.

„Timmy,“ the sound muffled by his lips, „Timmy, you need to calm down.“

He pulled away, panting, hair tousled and uncertainty written on his beautiful features, „Did I- did I do something wrong?“

„You’re perfect,“ and I fucking meant it, „but we need to- we need to be _good_.“

_Fuck, that’s such an Oliver thing to say._

I shook my head, not finding the right words.

„What I mean is we don’t have to stop, but we just- I want you, everything about you _so bad_ and because of that I’m going to end up hurting you if you- we don’t.. dial it back a little.“

I couldn’t stop staring at his lips, dark pink and swollen from the kisses, his normally pale, unblemished skin a slightly pinker shade around his mouth, his chin. _Stubble burn._

His earlier testimony was echoing in my head, _’I’m really sensitive.’_

I had to touch it, touch the abused flesh so I traced it with my fingers, both hearing and feeling his breath hitch at the initial contact.

_’I tend to get overwhelmed sometimes.’_

He bit into his lower lip, _to balance the sensation, to not be so overwhelmed by one touch,_ before sucking it into his mouth so _I had to touch him there too_ , had to push the lower lip further into his mouth, crushing it hard between his teeth and my thumb.

„Open,“ I said, not being able to think at all, yet lessening the strain on his lip.

He closed his eyes and parted his mouth further, allowing his lower lip to resume its regular position. It looked pinker, more pouty than before.

I pushed my thumb into his mouth, letting his tongue curl around it, the velvety moistness of his mouth making me _insane_. I wanted that mouth everywhere, anywhere.

He curled his hand around my fingers and pulled my thumb out of his mouth with a small wet pop, guiding the hand down slowly, forcing my fingers to press roughly on his skin.

„What if I want you to hurt me?“


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted nothing more than to push my fingers down, sink them into his delicate neck where the skin seemed almost translucent. Cover it with marks that would act as both a reminder and a promise of what’s to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm way past apologies at this point, but just know that writing this (and the next) chapter felt like giving mental birth for two months straight. Words left me and did not find their way back home easily.
> 
> I know what you're thinking.. Willl this morning everr enddd? Yes it will, it will end with the next chapter and I have that one already written. There will be hurt. There will also be comfort.
> 
> Also, I love you all. Thank you for your lovely comments - they kept me going when I wanted to quit 500 times (4 of those times very seriously). I feel like I lost my ability to write, but here's 3k of words for you and I hope you'll still love me (or at least tolerate me) after reading it.
> 
> Special thanks to A. who read over this mess, listened to me whine and be insecure for 3 weeks and is just otherwise lovely. <3
> 
> P.S. If you're TRIGGERED by descriptions of intense anxiety, please tread carefully.

 

_“What if I want you to hurt me?”_

_Fuck._

My hand _twitched_ in response to his question, a minute press of my fingers into the baby-soft skin of his neck enough to coax out an equally small, shaky moan from the beautiful boy on top of me.

His lips were trembling, dark pink and glistening in the sunlight, yet his hand pushing down on mine, practically forcing it around his neck was steady, steadier than my hands had ever been.

I could feel Timothée’s pulse thrumming under my palm, could feel the bump of his Adam’s apple, the hollow of his throat, even the sharp edge of his collarbone against my wrist.

I wanted nothing more than to push my fingers down, sink them into his delicate neck where the skin seemed almost translucent. Cover it with marks that would act as both a reminder and a promise of what’s to come.

A promise to coax out pleasure from his body, a promise to find what made him _bend_ , a promise to find what made him _break_.

And before I managed to divert the course of my thoughts, I could already wonder how much Timothée _could_ take, being so sensitive, so delicate.

How easy it would be to overwhelm him, how easily his thin body would give in to both pleasure and pain and I felt an unspeakable urge to _know_ whether his mind allowed _more_ than his body would, whether his mind craved for more stimulation than his body could handle and, if it came down to it, whether his mind would be able to beat his body into submission and simply take it, no matter how sensitive he was, no matter how overwhelmed he would be. _Just take it._

I could even picture Timothée on his knees before me, soft mouth stretched wide around my cock, eyes pleading, my big hands clamped around his delicate neck like a collar, squeezing until his eyelids droop–

Timothée all tied up with black rope, face shoved into the pillow, ass in the air, looking fucking undignified with legs spread wide, his milky white thighs decorated with angry red marks that might as well be transcribed notes as I would hear a symphony of his moans when I looked at them, each representing the high-pitched yelps, the muffled whimpers from when I had bitten into his skin–

 _and I felt my insides throb at the thought,_ a flare of arousal mixed with guilt, with sickening shame that I wanted to hurt him when I did not want to hurt him at all.

Yet there it was – poisonous, twisted darkness bubbling under the surface and I could only guess the ingredients of the concoction, the reasons why.

_“What if I want you to hurt me?”_

_“What if I want you to hurt me?”_

_“What if I want you to hurt me?”_

The question was running laps in my head, his soft voice echoing on every footstep and I could feel the ground sway under me, a minuscule quake punctuating each of the words.

Abruptly, something clicked, the echo in my head halting to a sudden stop. I had been too lost in my head to notice, to really _listen_.

It was not the words he had said, but the way he had said them - far from sounding certain, far from seductive, far from _Timmy_. It was an act, an imitation of self-confidence, the almost apologetic tone of his voice a dead giveaway. His question wasn’t an invitation at all.

_It was an offering masked as an invitation._

I felt my chest tighten at the thought.

_You were supposed to know better, Timmy. You were supposed to not let me hurt you. Why would you let me hurt you?_

I looked up at him then, at his emerald eyes glimmering in the sunlight, at his pale, freckled skin, dark curls tousled, seeing the small, hesitant breaths escaping through his abused, parted lips, and I could feel my heart swell because he was so unguarded, so trusting and didn’t he know I had done nothing, _nothing_ to deserve it?

Didn’t he know I could barely trust myself with him?

“Timmy,” my voice sounded strained as I pried my hand away from under his before gently stroking my fingertips over the pinkened flesh of his neck, _because he had forced my hand down_ , _had forced my hand down,_ “we’re not gonna do that. I’m not gonna- _God, Timmy,_ why would- _why would you possibly want that?_ ”

Timothée shifted his body nervously while sucking his lower lip into his mouth, hands coming down to rest on my shoulders before a curious finger started tracing the collar of my v-neck.

"More importantly, _do you_? Want that? Want me to hurt you?"

He scrunched his freckled nose and exhaled unsteadily.

"It doesn't–,” he licked his lips, “I'm so sensitive, sometimes, that it doesn't really– really take a lot to hurt me," voice barely a whisper, eyes looking anywhere but at me. “So I guess it’s okay if– if that happens sometimes.”

I felt my stomach sink, felt an actual _ache_ in my ribcage when he said it because he seemed so small, so fragile then, thinking it was alright for others to hurt him _because it happened easily sometimes._

_God, and a part of me had wanted to pin you to the mattress and just fuck into you and I'm a monster and–_

"Timmy," my voice heavy with guilt, with shame as I gently took hold of his face with both hands, directing him to look at me.

I didn’t know how to handle the way that he was, to handle him the way he deserved to be handled. He was _too exquisite_ for this world. Or perhaps it was the world that was too ruined, shallow and closed for him. And I was a part of this world too.

"You're so precious, you with your whole sensitivity thing," I exhaled a small, sad laugh, "I mean _my god_ , it drives me absolutely crazy thinking about it. But you can't ever, and _I mean this, Timmy,_ you can't ever let anyone hurt you.”

My voice cracked when I added, “Not even me,” and I couldn’t help but stroke his beautiful cheekbones then, soothingly, delicately, afraid that he would somehow crumble in my arms, that I would somehow cut into his porcelain features with the rougher skin around my fingernails and ruin him forever.

Timothée nodded, or _tried_ to nod in the confines of my hands, simply agreeing with everything I said, tentatively biting his lip again _and I couldn’t have that, couldn’t have him be like this, all soft and gentle and unguarded when a part of me still wanted to rip him apart._

_You’re going to hurt him. You’re going to hurt him. Don’t you dare hurt him._

My body felt tight, too tight for me to reside in, my mind hopelessly yelling at me to leave, but I couldn’t leave, couldn’t force myself away because he was right there with me, willing and _sensitive_ and God-

_What had I ever done to deserve this torture, this bliss?_

“Come here,” and the words escaping my mouth sounded too much like a command when I pulled him into me again, crushing our mouths together in what I wished to be tenderness yet what was far from it.

There was too much emotion, too much _hurt_ for it to not hurt.

I let my hands travel his sides, travel over the protruding bones of his back, greedily sinking my fingers into every nook and cranny I could find. I needed to get closer still, each hollow space between his bones an access point - and if I could bury my fingers there, perhaps they would also accommodate my desperation. Perhaps his body would provide a home for even the ugliest parts of my soul.

I gripped him tightly and flipped us over, Timothée’s thin frame trapped between me and the mattress, melting into my body, pliant, welcoming.

I swear my heart was threatening to beat out of my chest as he wrapped his long, slender legs around my waist, making needy little noises, pushing his hands into my hair, softly pulling at the strands.

I wanted to crush him into me. Wanted to crush _him_. Yet he was guileless, biting _my_ lip tenderly, then hard, licking over the exploited flesh before smiling mischievously, _happy_ , _content, beautiful Timmy._

A tangle of limbs, a tangle of emotions, a tangle of pushing and pulling, giving and taking is what we were. A blur of everything, the only distinct sound my heartbeat in my ears, the only distinct smell _Him_ , a hint of lemongrass in his hair, on his soft skin.

I didn’t know what I was waiting for. What we were waiting for.

“Off, off, off, Timmy,” and I must have sounded _too keen, too needy_ when I finally pulled the sweater over his head because he smiled a smile _too wide_ for his freckled face, eyes glimmering playfully as his head plopped down onto the pillow again.

_And god how incredible he looked._

His long, thin limbs, milky white torso completely bared in the sunlight. Short curls a fucking mess against the pillow, lips dark red from the kissing, because _we had kissed_ , because _I had kissed him_ , I had _licked_ those very same lips mere seconds ago.

 _I knew what those lips tasted like_ and I couldn’t wait to taste him again, couldn’t wait to touch him everywhere.

It felt like a dream. Us, being there. Us, doing what we were doing.

Us, what we were about to do.

It felt like I had been detached from reality as I grabbed ahold of his waist and moved my hands upwards to caress the baby-soft skin of his stomach, his smooth chest. Touching him felt both familiar and foreign at once. I had never run my hands across a chest so flat, at least not in desire, but it felt _nice_ because it was Timmy and _everything about Timmy always felt nice._

_But those couldn’t have been my hands on him. It wasn’t allowed, I wasn’t allowed to have my hands on him._

His skin was hairless and smooth, soft and warm and I took too much comfort in my hands looking _huge_ on his delicate frame. _That part felt familiar. I had never felt small compared to anyone, so that was okay, that was what I already knew._

His long, thin fingers were toying with the button of my shorts, curiously dipping under the waistband, stroking the skin there and it felt _like too much, like not enough_. I wanted to simultaneously push his hand lower and yank it away.

“Why are you still wearing clothes?” he murmured against my lips and I could feel him smile before he teasingly added, “Off, off, off, Armie,” and gently bit into my lower lip.

But before I could form a clever retort, before I could even force some blood back into my brain to form _anything_ , he was already yanking off my shirt, and I thought _yes, stupid, stupid, why didn’t I do that already_ , so I abruptly detached my body from his to do just that, to undress despite his dissatisfied huff at me climbing out of the bed.

_This is really happening._

_Undress._

_Because you’re gonna have sex._

_‘With him,’_ emphasized my brain unhelpfully and I didn’t know why the thought made me anxious, why it quickened my breathing for reasons completely unrelated to physical arousal.

_Guilt. It must be the guilt._

_Get a grip on it._

So I focused my eyes on Timothée kneeling on the bed, hands on his thighs, chewing on his lower lip and giving me a good once over, eyes all black.

He was breathtakingly beautiful yet all I wanted to do was push him face-down into the mattress and hold his wrists in a tight grip behind his back. I wondered if he’d let me fuck him like that, if he could even take it and, if not, _would he still let me._

_Fuck, what is wrong with you?_

I tore off my shirt in badly concealed anger, throwing it on the ground, then flicked open the button of my shorts, but before I could tear those off too, Timothée shifted on the bed to move closer to where I was standing, lips glistening in the sunlight _because of course he had been biting them_.

He moved slowly, seemingly approaching a wild animal. It’s as if he knew that something was wrong, _that I was wrong_.

_He always knew._

Timothée kneeled on the edge of the bed and reached out his thin, pale hands to caress my sides and pull me closer.

It’s as if someone had flicked a switch, because there was no playfulness to him at that moment, instead it was all delicate wonder in his eyes, delicate wonder in his soft voice when he said, “You’re so beautiful, Armie.”

He was looking up at me from behind long lashes, trust and adoration written on his divine features and I couldn’t– _god, I didn’t know what to feel_ , let alone what to say or do, because didn’t he know I could hurt him? That I could crush his gentle wrists and his gentle neck and that I had all of the power _but at the same time I had none of it_?

Without waiting for a reply, he leaned in to kiss my stomach, a few of his rebellious curls tickling my chest and I felt so helpless, so confused because I was _feeling too much and not enough_ and I couldn’t even have placed us in time or space then because my brain was swimming in fog, my conscious desperately reaching for something safe, something familiar to hold on to.

I’d had sex countless times in my life with countless partners in countless places yet I just stood there, letting him kiss my stomach, my chest, letting him pop open the rest of the buttons on my shorts, letting him slowly pull them down and discover that I had nothing at all underneath.

I heard a small _“Oh”_ escape from his mouth before he kissed my hip right below the tan line, my skin tone there much more similar to his, much less used to the sun and the wind and the changes in temperature, so the touch of his lips _burned_.

It really always was too much or not enough with him.

And he traced my skin with his tongue, with his soft pillowy lips, kept placing wet kisses on my hips and lower, so the fire just spread, spread all over my body with each beat of my heart, cursing through my veins in liquid form and it was moving so fast, everything was moving so fast-

My hands cramped into fists involuntarily, fingernails digging into my palms and my heart was beating in my chest in a punishing rhythm, as if needing to escape the confines of my body _because maybe it really couldn’t handle it_ , couldn’t handle Timothée touching me like _this_ despite me desperately wanting him to.

_You’re going to hurt him. You’re going to hurt him and you’re going to love seeing him in pain because-_

_“A deviant is what those boys are, Armand.”_

_“Boys don’t kiss other boys, Armand.”_

I shut my eyes tightly, trying to rid myself of the memories rising to the surface from where I had buried them deep. But perhaps not deep enough.

_“Not on the mouth, not on the cheek. Boys don’t hold hands.”_

“Armie?” Timothée’s voice seemed to echo from somewhere in the background although he was inches away, _not even inches away,_ but right there kissing me, holding me.

_“Those boys are sick, they are twisted, they will hurt you and corrupt you.”_

_“You are not to interact with him going forward, Armand.”_

_You’re a deviant. You’re going to hurt him. You’re going to choke him. You’re going to bruise him. You’re going to love it._

“Armie?” Timothée repeated and a part of me knew that he was looking up at me with worried eyes, that he was rubbing his hands up and down my sides in comfort but I couldn’t react, couldn’t even focus as my body was numb, my heart beating in my throat and I could feel my airways closing up, could feel it choking me, _my own heartbeat choking me_.

_God what’s happening?_

_I want this, I want this, but why is this-_

My breathing was quickening, but how could it quicken when I _couldn’t breathe_? Inhaling did nothing, it did _nothing except hurt my chest_ which felt collapsed, shrunken and my whole body felt too tight, the skin stretching painfully over bones, muscles.

Abruptly, all of the sounds were too loud, the silent chirping of the birds outside a screech to my ears, Timothée’s breathing deafening but not as deafening as my own. And the “Armie?”, the “Armie?” was unbearable, it was _screaming_ in both my head and out of it, an echo of thunder and- _I had to get away, I had to get away, I had to-_

_But I can’t- I can’t let Timothée- he isn’t- he doesn’t-_

I abruptly grabbed ahold of his thin frame, pushing him away as gently as I could in my fit of discomfort, needing to detach, needing to get away.

“I just-,” my voice sounding rough, strained-

“I need to-,” I tried swallowing, but I couldn’t even swallow, “just, water, okay. Sec.”

In my peripheral vision I could see Timothée kneeling on the bed when I turned my back to him, his eyes vulnerable, scared - _not of me, but for me? -_ and I heard a silent, pleading “Armie” escape his lips, sprint after me as I stepped out of the room.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm on tumblr now too @workslikeacharmie. Come stalk me, let's be friends. Or come yell at me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I shut my eyes tightly, so tightly I could feel moisture gather in the corners, could feel it stick to my lashes like glue. I welcomed it, the relief when clear drops finally fell into the empty spaces between my shaky fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over three months and I don't know what to say. 
> 
> Thank you if you're still here and reading this. Thank you for the wonderful comments - they give me life. I love all of them and sometimes come here to read them when life gives me too many lemons for even my lemonade maker to handle it.
> 
> Also thank you, A. for reading it over <3.

 

People often speak of heaven, of hell. What happens after life, they say, is either one or the other, or perhaps worse – nothingness.

Yet we often fail to realize that life itself is both heaven and hell, at least in between the nothingness that we reside in. But how are we to possibly understand that it is in fact nothingness that our life has become?

It makes no sound, it gives no sign. Nothingness doesn’t shake you to let you know you’ve arrived. It doesn’t whisper lullabies in your ear, doesn’t slap you in the face either. It’s not warmth, it’s not cold that freezes all movement in your veins. It’s not a gentle caress of a hand, it’s not red-hot anguish sitting in the pit of your stomach.

It’s not darkness, it’s not light. It’s neither here or there. And maybe that in itself is the clue.

But then, then something happens that does shake you. That wakes you from the coma you didn’t realize was your life all along. Or, in more correct terms, _lack of it_.

For me, it was him – warmth, a gentle caress of his hand, and only then did I feel that I had been cold all along, that I had been starved all along. It was he that fed me, but it was not his flesh I was after, no, _it was his hope instead_.

How he made me feel _full_ and after the long-lived starvation my body simply didn’t know how to handle it. Yet in my foolishness I kept taking nonetheless.

Was it my greed that had paved the path to hell? Because suddenly, albeit being alive, _there I was._ Surrounded by all of my demons, each and every one of them coming back to haunt me, knowing exactly how. And knowing exactly why.

***

My hands were shaking when I tore open the bathroom door, stumbling inside on equally shaky feet, physically unable to lock it behind me. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, yet it was nothing like the time Timmy had stood on my feet. Instead of excitement, instead of wonder laced with fear – _god, had it been just yesterday?_ – it was suffocating me, erasing all traces of the wonder and leaving me with nothing more than the most unwanted of companions: terror, anguish and despair.

Even now, thinking back on that moment tears at my insides. I can barely recall my thoughts, barely recall how long I was in there, but I remember the feeling. It was fierce heat of panic, tremors running through my overwhelmed body, yet my insides felt cold, empty.

It was betrayal, my own body betraying me. Looking down at my trembling hands, I suddenly realized they didn’t even feel mine. _My body didn’t feel mine_ as I gulped down air in a desperate attempt to force some oxygen into those foreign lungs, to not be suffocated by the carcass I was used to calling home.

Because how could this be my home when only fear and fury resided in it? How could this be my home when after all that I had done to rid myself of the memories, of the resentment that was fed to me throughout all of my childhood, I could still hear my mother’s voice echo in my mind.

 _“Boys don’t kiss boys,”_ and albeit gentle, it sounded like a mockery of nurture. I hated it, hated the love that had accompanied those statements, the love that had made me believe them in the first place. Hated how my body was fighting every tooth and nail for what it thought to be right when it couldn’t have been more wrong.

It hurt. My chest hurt, my body hurt, _my heart hurt._

I lifted my gaze upward, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. There I was, braced against the counter, palms pressed flat against the marble surface to hold myself up, eyes bloodshot, hair in disarray.

 _“You’re a Hammer, it’s a legacy, it means something,”_ my mother used to say. Yet it meant _nothing_ , it was worth _nothing._ The only real legacy was pretension, superficiality. And the man looking back at me was barely a man at all. Merely a scared creature, still trembling, still afraid of the darkness, still afraid of the light. Nude to the world, yet physical nudity was the least of it – my soul had been stripped, forced out of hiding and into the sunlight.

It was ugly, underneath that beautiful façade. _I was ugly._ All I could see was sick, twisted remnants of what I had desperately wanted to erase. I loathed it – myself. Loathed that despite not caring about Timmy being a man _a part of me did care_. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t know how not to.

I wanted to kiss every inch of his beautiful face, hold his delicate frame in my arms so he would never feel cold, would never feel abandoned. Wanted to cherish him because he was pure and precious. _Because he was everything that I was not._

Yet there was darkness to it, anguish and pain ingrained so deep in me that I didn’t know how not to bruise, how not to punish when that’s all I had been told to do. Allowed to do. To lust after was forbidden, to love even more so. And to find comfort? In another man’s arms? Unforgivable. Not even spoken of.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head on my hands, trying to get my body under control. I could feel yet another sharp, painful sting in the back of my mind, a remnant of the absolute truth I had been immersed in during my teenage years shift into consciousness.

_‘Don’t you dare touch boys like that again, Armand.’_

The memory made my body convulse as if trying to throw up the words, wanting to rid itself of them forever. It was _torture_ , and perhaps I deserved all of it. For still being affected, for being weak, for daring to seek something beyond my legacy. Yet all I had ever wanted, Timothée made me realize, was _something more_.

“That’s why you’re here,” he had said.

“That’s why I’m here.”

But things are rarely that simple, despite me having foolishly hoped otherwise. One does not escape their demons by running away. No, only by running toward something more powerful can they be diminished.

Would Timmy be my _something more_?

_‘Straight to hell is where you’ll go if you kiss any of them.’_

And perhaps I would; perhaps I already was. The hopelessness eating me alive, memories of Timothée’s lips on my skin burning down the last bridge between familiar land and the abyss.

I was mumbling a soft, continuous string of “No, no, no,” and shaking my head. I was sorry. I was ashamed. I had never felt more alone in my life.

I shut my eyes tightly, so tightly I could feel moisture gather in the corners, could feel it stick to my lashes like glue. I welcomed it, the relief when clear drops finally fell into the empty spaces between my shaky fingers.

I heard a barely audible knock that brought me back to the moment, then another, and I imagined Timothée leaning his body against the door, resting his soft, warm cheek on the chilly surface, worried but unsure how to proceed.

“I’m sorry,” I wanted to say, “you’re perfect, but I’m broken,” but the words didn’t come out. I felt helpless, imagined him feeling equally helpless.

"Armie?"

I was sure my voice would betray me, so I said nothing, let the silence do the talking instead.

"Could you open the door please, Armie?"

I didn't want him to see me, _not like this, not as this shivery mess, this pathetic excuse of a man._

"You're not pathetic, Armie. You're anything but that. Please just- could you please open the door?" Timothée's voice strained, pleading.

_God, had I said all of that out loud?_

"Please?” he added then, sounding frail.

_I can't handle you, Timmy. I can't handle you being open and precious and loving and thinking I deserve all of it._

Yet it was only a matter of time before I had to face him, before he had to face me. And the sooner he did, the sooner he would go. He had to, because there was no way he would stay. No one would. _No one had before, not when I was broken._

Even more so, I needed to let him go, before it all went to hell, or more precisely, before he followed me there. Still it terrified me, the thought of opening the door and seeing myself through his eyes because they were the most honest of mirrors I had ever confronted. I trusted him, trusted his truth. And if he too despised me, then that’s all I would be worthy of.

I sighed heavily, rubbing my eyes with one hand, and reached for the door with the other. I cracked it open and, keeping my eyes down, pulled my hand back, placing it on the edge of the marble sink. Seconds passed before I heard a creak, felt a rush of warm air as Timothée pulled the door open and stepped in.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Armie?”
> 
> I closed my eyes, let his voice wash over me, soothe me although I didn’t deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback on this story! I cherish each comment and kudos (and you screaming at me on tumblr, haha). As you can probably see once you dig into the chapter - my writing style has changed a bit. Not because I wanted it to, but because it depends on what is happening in my life and with my emotions. I'll be completely honest with you - writing this story is a challenge. I want to do it justice yet rarely feel that I do, which is why I'm unsure as to how (and, honestly, IF) I'll proceed.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter despite it being in a slightly different style. I hope you'll enjoy this despite it not being what I wished for it to be. Let me know your thoughts (if you have any), I appreciate them deeply.
> 
> Thank you to both of my N.'s who are lovely human beings and yell at me to believe in myself more. <3  
> Also, a huge thank you to L. who continues to express her love for this work and left beautiful detailed comments on every single chapter. <3 It means a lot.

I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at anything other than my still trembling hands pressed against the cold sink, knuckles turning white from the force of it.

I couldn’t look at him, but could _feel_ him there, standing behind me, towering over me despite out height difference. I felt that small, weak; _a traitor_.

Timothée’s breathing was barely audible, shaky inhale followed by an equally shaky exhale, _yet even that made me choke up_. His presence, albeit quiet, non-intrusive in the most Timmy manner possible, reminded me of everything I was missing, of everything I would never have. Not only _him_ but freedom from myself, from shackles I should’ve never been put in but was unable to let go of even after the locks were broken. I just didn’t know how to.

 _“I’m sorry, it’s not you, I’m sorry, it’s not you_ – _,”_ is all I wanted to say, yet words had abandoned me. Perhaps I had nothing more left to say as I had told him everything. He already knew everything. Now he got to witness it – me, in all of my ugliness, in all of my despair.

He placed the soft tips of his fingers on my bare shoulder in the gentlest touch, forcing a cold tremor through my body, even making my breath hitch. As if I was merely a puppet, and he my puppeteer.

“Armie?”

I closed my eyes, let his voice wash over me, soothe me although I didn’t deserve it.

He ran his fingers over the back of my neck, down my spine.

“Armie?”

I forced my head up, forced my eyes open and looked at his reflection in the mirror. At _our_ reflections in the mirror. Half of his body was hidden behind mine, yet the half I could see was wrapped in a simple white bathrobe, his dark hair tousled, eyes just as worried and unsure as I had imagined them to be.

All of this reminded me how naked I truly was. In more ways than one.

“I should go,” I finally managed, my voice small, defeated.

Timmy’s fingers instantly tightened on my back, his body reacting before his mind had caught up.

“No, you should stay. Or if you go, I’ll go with you.”

_Go where? Where, Timmy? Where can I go to escape myself? Why would you want to come with me?_

I shook my head, kept shaking it, unable to produce any words.

“Armie, please stop. You’re so stuck in _here_ ,” he rose on his tippy toes and combed his fingers through my hair, “and I know I’m young and I’m foolish, but I also know what that feels like, to be trapped in your head like this. Just because you _think something_ doesn’t make it true.”

I still stood there like a fool, soaking in the warmth of his small frame. Warmth that I didn’t deserve, so I told him.

“Yes, you do. You deserve warmth. You deserve patience. You deserve love, kindness. _You deserve everything, Armie._ All of these ugly things that you think you are, it’s what was fed to you. You were fed so much coldness by your family that it’s hard to feel warm again. It’s unfamiliar, it’s terrifying. But you know in your heart what’s right. You just need to let go of the cold. Let me make you feel warm. _Please_.”

“I wish it would work like that. I desperately wish it would,” and it sounded like a prayer coming from my lips. “Maybe as desperately as you wish for me to be the person you think I am,” I added in a whisper.

“But you _are_ the person I think you are. And you’re wrong about what I want. _What I desperately want_ is for you to see what I see because I see a man who _loves_ although he was taught not to. Who _cares_. Who knows what is rotten and strives for something better. You’re not what your parents wanted you to be. Thank god you are not. _You are so much better, Armie._ ”

It’s as if his words formed a beautiful ribbon that wrapped itself around my heart. I realized I wasn’t breathing rapidly anymore, my hands weren’t shaking. Perhaps it was his words that had soothed me, perhaps it was his presence instead. Yet I still felt numb, drained, _empty._

“If you don’t see it yourself, please trust me to see it. We’re the same, Armie, you and me. At least– at least when it comes to the things that matter. We’re the same.” And with that, he leaned into me, reaching his hands around my middle to graze my bare stomach with his long, delicate fingers in a feather-light sensation.

His hands seemed too small, too pale, _too breakable_ on my flesh, so I had to look away.

“I will–,” I swallowed audibly, wanting to force down the truth that threatened to emerge.

_I will ruin you, Timmy. I don’t want to. But I will drag you down with me for I am so lost that by trying to lead me home you will lose yourself too. I’m not the man you wish I was. I’m not even the man I wish I was._

“You will what?” He asked softly, eyes searching for my reaction, for my truth.

“I will hurt you,” I breathed, “I will hurt you because I don’t know how not to. Please don’t make me hurt you.”

Timmy shook his head and leaned further into me, placing his soft cheek on my shoulder. His curls tickled my neck and it made me want to ask him to get away, to _beg_ if necessary.

“You would never hurt me,” he whispered into my skin.

“I would,” I whispered back, almost swallowing the words.

“Then why aren’t you, Armie? Why aren’t you out there in my bedroom hurting me? You’re stronger than me and I would do _–_ _I would do anything._ So why are you here instead?”

_He would do anything. God, how do I–_

“I trust you,” he said, voice so sincere it cut through _all of me,_ “I trust you, Armie.”

And with that, he let go of me and brought his hands down. I could see his thin fingers tremble as he slowly undid his robe, then pulled it open to expose creamy flesh, _beautiful, unblemished_. I had almost forgotten what it looked like, what _he_ looked like. Memories of the past hours flooded my consciousness, desire flooded my consciousness, _pain flooded my consciousness._

It seemed I had ceased breathing – every exposed inch of his milky skin further tightened the noose around my neck, yet Timothée took two shallow breaths for each one that I didn’t. He licked his puffy lips nervously before letting the robe fall to the floor, my stomach sinking in unison with it. He looked down at the fabric pooled at his feet, took a shaky breath, then locked his eyes with mine in the mirror.

There was defiance in him, thin chest rising and falling. His rosy lips parted, and it took me a second to realise he had said something. It was, –

“ _Hurt me all you want._ ”

And in that moment, I felt my knees buckle, as if the universe was forcing me to _fall down to them_ , fall down before the most beautiful being I had ever seen, the most beautiful being I had ever _known_ in my life.

It was unfair, unfathomable, the way he had put his complete trust in me. The way he had shrunk himself for me to feel big. Big enough to know I had outgrown my former self. “ _Just leave the shell behind,”_ he may as well have said, “just step out of it and leave it behind. You’ve got bigger shoes to fill now. _Your own._ ”

And although I was shattered, empty of everything, even myself, I felt such fondness, affection, _gratitude_ towards him that I wished to beg him to hurt _me_ instead, hurt _me_ all he wanted. I wasn’t sure whether I needed him to save me, or step on the last standing remains of my hope that perhaps he could.

Timothée put his small hand on my much bigger one, yet somehow he held it as if _mine_ was fragile instead.

“Let me melt your ice, Armie. _Let me make you warm again,”_ he breathed and tugged at my hand, wanting to lead me back to his bedroom.

And only then did I understand that I couldn’t wreck it, _the trust he had placed in me_. Perhaps in the end I did it for him, allowed him to heal me not because I wanted to be healed – _I did_ – but because _he_ needed to fix me.

I didn't want him to know that some things were beyond repairing. He needed to know how special he was, and that his delicate, beautiful soul was enough to bring the world to its knees, starting with me.

 _So I let him._ Let him lead me back to what I then thought to be my doom. Or perhaps, _his_.

As we stepped out of the bathroom, the brightness almost blinded me. I wished it was dark. I wished there was somewhere to hide because the rays of sun illuminating the room felt like an inquisition, like judgment day.

All I could think of was that with my demons all out in the open he was bound to be frightened by at least one of them. _I know I was._

Yet Timothée always had a spectacular gift of locking eyes even with the foulest of them and, by offering acceptance, shrinking them into something manageable. He would never back out without trying as he knew kindness was on his side.

He led me to his bed, already for the second time that day. Perhaps I was in a strange time loop, my life playing out in alternates until I made the right choice.

I was physically unable of letting go of Timothée’s hand, I couldn’t even let my gaze wonder as it needed to stay on him, on his eyes, the warmth emanating from them, the kindness, the trust holding me together. I sat on the edge of the bed completely naked, looking up at him for guidance, an almost inaudible creak of the mattress the only reminder that perhaps _this was still reality and not a surreal dream of my darkest fears and desires combined._

He nudged my unclothed legs further apart and, keeping his eyes locked on mine, kneeled between my feet.

To an outsider it would have seemed sexual, submissive – a young delicate thing surrendering himself for the dirtiest, darkest of consumptions. Offering to be used, offering to be taken in however one pleases.

But an outsider couldn’t have known that _it was really me on my knees_ as my everything was bared, my everything was at his mercy. I was stripped, even of myself.

I wanted to reach out and touch him, everywhere, anywhere, but it wasn’t my body that wanted to reach out, it was my soul searching for comfort.

“Armie,” he pried his hand away from my grip only to start stroking my biceps, then down my chest, abdomen. "Your parents were wrong, Armie."

"What you did, what we did, it's not bad,” he continued, shaking his head as if the thought was hurting him, hands still patiently petting my skin with his angelic touch. As if it could cure everything. As if _he_ could cure everything.

"It's okay to make l–," then he abruptly swallowed and looked down at my feet, at his bare knees tucked between my feet, before correcting himself, "to take care of each other like this, to give each other pleasure. To take pleasure in each other’s bodies and to enjoy it. Even if we're both men."

 _You were going to say make love. Because this is what it is, isn't it? It's making love. It has to be because I've never_ – _not like this._

_It's the way you touch me, the way you look at me. It transcends lust._

"Let me show you that it's okay, Armie, that it's good and pure and I promise it's not filthy and bad," the last words sounded almost as broken as I felt, yet there was hope seeping through the cracks in his voice, hope glimmering in the green of his eyes.

"Let me show you, please," and he rested his cheek on my knee, looking up at me with the same gentle eyes I had learned to adore over the course of merely a few weeks, learned to trust and–

"Yeah," my voice sounded wet and small, like a kitten caught in a rainstorm.

I felt as small, too, as ravaged as it would be, and that seemed ridiculous for a man of my height, a man of my size and age to feel small, putty in Timothée's hands.

But I couldn't help it, not when he held me like I was the one who could be easily hurt, like I was the one who could crumble if treated too roughly. _Yet maybe I was, maybe I would._ At times he seemed to know me better than I knew myself, and that certainly felt like one of those times.

Even in my desperate need to take care of him, to protect him from everyone and anyone who could've possibly caused him harm, in the end it was always him that took care of me, protected me from my demons by being the absolute opposite of what they represented.

He smiled at me, a gentle thing taking over his ethereal face, and rubbed the velvety skin of his cheek against the much rougher skin of my thigh. Starting from my knees and moving upwards, he then planted a trail of small, soft kisses, taking time with each kiss, _making all of them special_.

Every touch of his lips tickled me, thrilled me, terrified me as I had never felt more exposed, more surrendered. I had shown him my fears, my weaknesses, and instead of condemning them, he would sanctify me.

I closed my eyes to focus on nothing except his bony knees between my feet, the soft skin of his fingers rubbing against my hips, the moistness of his tongue leading me exactly where I needed to go _without me knowing the road at all_. I stroked his shoulders and neck with the tips of my fingers, just needing to make sure that the parts of his body not caressing me hadn’t somehow evaporated, that all of him was still there with me.

I opened my eyes to the small sound he made when I blindly touched his collarbone, surely landing on the place I had marked earlier, the place that bore an almost undetectable impression of my lips. Yet however undetectable, it was there and perhaps that's all that mattered.

He was looking up at me from behind those long lashes of his, short curls a heavenly mess, mouth still swollen from _everything_.

“You can pet my hair.” His eyes were so open and warm when he said it, even warmer than his voice, "but don’t pull it, please. Just– just pet it."

And with that sentence alone, I felt him rob a piece of my soul, me just handing it away because despite his chosen wording _it was not a permission but a request_ , the most tentative one I had ever received. Tentative as if I would somehow consider it amusing or reject what seemed to be so important to him in that moment.

_Of course I will pet your hair. I would do anything for you._

But I couldn't say it, just nodded, not knowing what would constitute an answer worthy of him – _nothing, nothing was worthy of him_ – and ever so gently brushed my hand through his curls, wrapping the silky strands between my fingers. I felt his body relax further into me, heard his content exhale that melted my heart.

And at the time I didn’t know that he would sometimes need his hair to be pet as it soothed him when he was nervous, out of his depth. Had I known sooner, perhaps I would’ve recognized that _he too had no clue what to do_ , that he had never done it before either. But I didn’t, and the revelation later would hurt so much more because of it.

He traced the upper part of my thighs slowly with his tongue, then wrapped his soft, wet lips around my cock. He held it in his mouth like it was the most precious pearl, then _sucked_ , and I could feel all the blood in my body rush downwards. I drew in a shuddery breath and tightened my fist in his hair before remembering I shouldn’t. Instead I gripped the edge of the bed, sinking my fingers into the mattress under me, and relaxed my other hand to card it through his hair, to twirl the beautiful silky curls between my fingers. He hummed softly in reaction and I felt my whole body vibrate along with it.

He was gentler than anyone had ever been with me, _gentler than I could’ve ever dared ask anyone to be._

 _And god, was he beautiful._ A light blush on his cheeks, rosy lips stretched wide around my cock, _so wide I had to trace them with my fingers; had to feel his jaw move as I pushed deeper, merely a minuscule movement of my hips_. I felt his throat constrict around me, saw saliva pool in the corners of his mouth, and suddenly felt an urge to push my fingers into his mouth alongside my cock, to make him _choke on it_ because–

_You'll hurt him, you’ll end up hurting him; you want to hurt him, might as well do it now._

But instead, I pulled back, returning all control to him; simply stroked his sharp cheekbones with my thumb and let the thought pass, _forced it to leave_. And through all of it he was looking at me, holding my gaze with green eyes full of love instead of lust, pride instead of shame because he knew he was taking care of me. Not only of my body, but all of me, all of that felt broken and out of place, he forced it back together and licked my wounds clean.

Although it may seem foolish, it’s what I heard him say with his eyes, with his hands, with his mouth without any words whatsoever: _“I will cure all that is broken in you, I will love you for all of the reasons they didn't, for all of the times they didn't.”_

And it was love, wasn't it? Because it had to be love. I wouldn't have– _we_ _wouldn't have_ _been there for lust alone_. And there was no way that this – him, on his knees, literally sucking the sadness, the guilt out of me, even the fear to disappoint the world that existed outside his room, outside the two of us - could be lust alone.

'I love you,' I wanted to say for each second he loved me with his mouth, with his hands, with his eyes. _With his heart._

'I love everything about you,' I wanted to say.

‘I love what you're doing for me now because it shows that you love me too.’

‘No one has ever loved me the way you have, on your knees at my feet, giving me everything that needs to be given, taking everything from me that needs to be taken.’

'I love you,' I wanted to say. But the words seemed insufficient, seemed not nearly enough as those words had already been said by billions of people for billions of reasons and I wanted something just for this, just for us.

When he finally pulled the orgasm out of me, swallowing every drop _while I pet his hair_ , I said something that there was only one of, something that was the most precious word I could think of in that moment for everything that it represented.

_“Timmy.”_

_And it sounded like a sob. It sounded like a plea. It sounded like salvation._

I pulled him up from the floor, right into my lap as soon as I could feel my limbs again. I wrapped my hand around his cock, felt his whole body shudder, and kissed his swollen mouth. _I_ _tasted myself on his tongue._

Between exploring his mouth, between breaths I kept saying his name, whispering “ _Timmy”_ , whispering “ _Thank you”_ because I couldn’t believe he had done this for me. _He had stayed. No-one had stayed before._

Warm tears fell down my face yet I felt no shame, not anymore. Because he hadn’t. He didn’t. I simply kissed him, and he kissed me, passionate and _otherworldly,_ through my tears, perhaps through _his_ tears, until he came all over my fist, over our tummies, and whimpered _my name._ One single breathless _“Armie”_.

And that’s all I was, that’s all I felt like – barely there at all, barely existing, but full of emotions, full of everything that was Timmy. I wanted to tell him I loved him again but could only keep repeating his name in gratitude, keep kissing his lips and cheeks and eyelids as I hugged his thin body close. Instead of saying it, I pressed my love into his skin, marked him with it until it’s all that he was. _Just my love._

We were there for a while, just wrapped up in each other’s arms, his small frame perfectly fitting onto mine. I held him. Held him until our breathing calmed down. Until the tears stopped. Until our hearts started beating as one. Until I felt _warm_ again. Until all that I heard in my mind was the quiet. Not a thought racing anywhere anymore. _Quiet._

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback (incl. constructive criticism) means the world to me! Peace and love xx
> 
> @workslikeacharmie on tumblr


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